Drink
by Ahsurika
Summary: What fools the Sunfire Elves were to invite him into their sanctum. Their greatest magic is but fuel to his fire. Oneshot based on prompts for Aaravos Week 2020.


**A/N: someone told me somewhere that this week of 2/10 is dedicated to Aaravos and gave prompts, so I broke my hiatus and threw a little something together. going back to sleep after this**

**this is actually the day 4 prompt but so be it**

* * *

The Sunfire guards' surprise serves as a palate cleanser, delectable and fresh. A glass of cool rosewater, freshly ground at the Midnight Desert's central oasis, enough to whet his appetite without attempting to satisfy it.

Within moments, however, comes the dull tang of disappointment, and mixed with it a sour aftertaste of what Aaravos quickly identifies as disgust. Had they not grown so arrogant in their power and wealth, so satisfied with their almost ritual abasement of their human neighbors, they would not have been nearly so foolish as to bring an enemy into their sanctum — a renowned _mage_, no less, recognized as such across national borders — to permit him access to their nation's shining heart.

How much these rebels have forgotten. For the sun is a star as well, and to live forever in its light is to disregard the dark. There was a time when the Sunfire elves knew this, when some held their minds open to more revolutionary theories of how the world could be. Before they fixed a sun in their sky and called it achievement, never realizing that without the natural cycle of day and night they would stagnate and die.

Just because this is working to Aaravos's advantage does not mean he has to appreciate it.

Still, it would be rude of him to decline a meal so graciously gifted. It has been centuries since he was offered such opportunity as this.

* * *

Touching the world outside his tower is like breaking a still pond's surface after spending a lifetime submerged, gasping for clean air while the stars applaud overhead. He could not have known how pure it would feel, how fulfilling that first breath after decades of drowning. His body is still imprisoned, but still Aaravos can feel the slow breeze crawl across his skin.

When Aaravos absorbs the pulsing _Korsolis_, what these children masquerading as guardians call theSun Nexus, the rush of energy amplifies that feeling a thousand times over.

In a stream of golden liquid it pours down his throat and blazes through his veins, scorching him raw. It blooms in his gut hotter than any magma, expands like creation until his seared insides shriek. Even several degrees removed, filtered as it is through his elf minion's staff and body, the sheer magnitude of the _Korsolis_ is almost more than Aaravos can survive in this form. He is forced to draw residual Sun energy from the power source's own flaring heat, girding the frail frame he's possessing with molten reinforcement.

The influx of Sun magic will kill the elf. Aaravos intended to leave the priest lifeless anyway, but as methods of sacrifice go this is horribly inelegant. It speaks to a lack of humility on his part, a carelessness that verges on hubris. Imperfection is part of the natural order, but he should not fail to account for it.

The elven guards rush Aaravos, and an afterthought swats them aside.

* * *

For dessert, her fear. Heady, like only the finest of wines.

And nostalgic, too. The taste of the Sun Queen's terror lights in Aaravos a candle's flame of an image, flickering and warm. He closes his eyes a moment and relishes in the memory and — _oh!_ she even looks the same. Shorter and stronger in stature and rounder of face, yes, and lacking in the powers of foresight that sharpened her grandmother's beauty to a knife point, but this queen possesses the same haughty eyes, lips, brow as the woman who led the charges against Aaravos all those years ago. A robust bloodline indeed to have lasted this long across long centuries of strife.

To end it here, now…

He ignores her pitious struggles as he savors the moment, breathes in sulfuric air. Only the very best of experiences can simultaneously evoke such fulfillment and gnawing anticipation. Nostalgia for the future, a memory of something that has yet to reveal itself but will someday be.

Or, in this case, something that today will cease to be.

He drinks, and when he is done only ashes remain.

* * *

Aaravos deliberately drags out the surrender of his puppet to its ignominious death. He has trained his soul to resist the in-between: though non-reality tensors flex, snarling at the eddy that his presence in this body generates, he withstands their insatiable pull. Liberty has its own taste, and no prisoner has ever held the words _all in good time_ with equanimity. He has waited centuries for his freedom. It is past time his chains were struck, and humanity's with them.

Viren looks at him, triumph and hope and vengeance in the curve of his lips, and Aaravos's return smile is genuine as he lets the elf's body fall. Everything before now was the movement of pieces on the board, merely angling for position. This, _this_ is the first blow.

And how delicious it is.

* * *

**comments and critique are always appreciated!**


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